I grow accustomed to a new disguise:
Day after day with triggers at our thumb
We sit upon the calculated skies
Arranged upon the metal of a theorem.
Costumed in miracle we walk the wind,
Divide the sea, rain fire, but heal no blind.
Under the wing of omen Jericho
Falls in a blast of engines and we pass
Above the lame whose cure no engines know
Except to open craters in the grass,
Woven forever to the whistling graph
A bomb makes toward an epitaph.
Too nearly amateur at death by fire
We have our gift by borrowing, not by birth.
Yet we divine that we may mount still higher
And never be divided from the earth.
Opening whatever sky, the theorem turns:
We are the bomb, the crater, and what burns.
Compelled to our momentum which is Law,
We wait for mathematics to be right,
Improve our art, log what we did and saw,
And track the sun by day, the stars by night.
Yet though our engines master in our stead,
We fail the sick, but still may raise the dead.
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